


Every Christmas

by une_ange1



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Forever Fuck Canon, Future Fic, Ichabbie Holidays, One Shot, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 11:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17182223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/une_ange1/pseuds/une_ange1
Summary: Crane & Abbie reflect on their Christmases together.





	Every Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I was encouraged last year by a Tumblr writing prompt: "His nose is cold, but other parts of him are growing very, very warm." Here’s the finished result -- two days late for X-mas. (I wouldn't be me if I was on time, but in my defense, I researched... a lot.)

He’s finished clearing a path for the truck and sets his sights on the walkway. _The mail carriers must be able to navigate safely_ , he reasons. Crane has already seen to their Christmas boxes, a note of thanks to Tom & Miss Jean for their “tireless dedication in delivering our goods and assorted missives” along with a gift card for each to the Amazons. Perhaps afterward he’ll have another go at that infernal inflatable snowman that grins its victory that it still slouches to the left.

Cold winds cause his eyes to water in their assault of his person, but they can’t get past the coat. (Nothing gets past the coat.) 

He looks up from his toils to the house and finds Abbie staring at him from the kitchen window. His nose is cold, but other parts of him are growing very, very warm. 

On his way in, he places his boots by the door to avoid tracking in snow — trading them for felted wool slippers — and smiles when he hears Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song” playing softly. For Abbie, the winter festivities only truly begin when the King sings. 

_Chestnuts roasting on an open fire_  
_Jack Frost nipping at your nose_  
_Yule-tide carols being sung by a choir_  
_And folks dressed up like Eskimos_

As it plays, Abbie hears Mama’s warm high register from the kitchen as she joins Cole’s rich baritone in a duet, smells the French toast tossed in brown sugar waiting on them at the table, sees a young Jenny in her favorite footie pajamas stealthily approaching the Christmas tree and Dad scooping her up before she can shake all the presents. Other times, she remembers Corbin humming along to the tune in the cruiser as he drinks from his thermos. Once it ends, he’d stroke his chin in thought, wonder aloud what holiday pies were being dreamed up at the diner. She wraps herself in those memories as she adds the final touches to the house. 

This time of year, their pantry is stocked with hot chocolate, crème-filled rolled wafers, cherry cordials, jumbo-sized marshmallows, cider, and plenty of rum. The air is sweetly perfumed by Christmas candles housed in their special poinsettia holders. The doorway is marked by holly and sprigs of mistletoe. Later, Abbie remembers their 1st encounter with mistletoe, at the library trying to track down the Golem. 

“You resisted.” 

“I was… game,” Crane asserts as she breaks into laughter. 

They could not have anticipated the storm that followed — Henry’s reveal, Katrina’s betrayal, Abbie’s near death (twice) — but they’ve weathered it all. Together. 

_Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe_  
_Help to make the season bright_  


Hell beasts no longer tread here, but inner demons freely come and go. Every year, they sit quietly and think of those no longer with them. The ones they couldn’t save. His fellow soldiers on the battlefield. Corbin. Arthur Bernard. Mama. Katrina. Andy. Mary Wells. Luke. Miss Caroline. Joey. Occasionally, they receive a postcard from Canada signed ‘Ira V. King’. It had been Crane’s idea, the anagram for Captain Irving’s new identity. 

****

********** 

**THE PAST**

Jenny navigated while Abbie drove the seven hours from Tarrytown to Ottawa. “I’m the one who will be stuck with the name for the next 50 years,” Frank groused. “And I say we revisit ‘Douglas Todd.’” 

“For the millionth time, you know why you can’t be Inspector Todd from _Beverly Hills Cop_ ,” Abbie called from over her shoulder. “It’s too risky. Plus, it was your department password.” 

“Only ‘cause you know me, Mills… And when were you using my credentials?” 

“What say you of Gavin?” Crane interjects, trying to change the subject. “Early namesakes included Sir Gawain, an Arthurian knight.” 

“Well, I did wield a sword,” Frank quipped. “But, uh, not sure I’m the right hue to pull that off. What else you got?” 

Crane clears his throat and continues re-arranging Irving’s name in his pocket notebook (a gift from the Lieutenant). Several minutes pass before he arrives at it. “Ah, yes,” he says, tapping the page for emphasis. “Ira V. King — a culmination, if you will, of Ira Aldridge and Boston King. Aldridge was a distinguished African-American actor known in British circles for his visceral portrayals of Shakespearean prose. Mr. King was a signer of The Book of Negroes and one of hundreds of enslaved persons who fought for Britain during the Revolutionary War, taking up residence later in Nova Scotia, if I remember correctly. Or perhaps for your modern-day Dr. King, Jr.” 

“Geez, Crane, no pressure,” Jenny pipes in. 

“If anyone can carry the weight of such great men, it is he,” Crane responds earnestly. 

Frank nods after a beat. “I like it.” 

“OK. I’ll pass it onto my connect so they can get moving on the new docs,” says Jenny, taking out a burner phone and makes the call. “Abs, take the next right. They’ll wanna meet up in Old Forge. You guys head back. I’ll take him the rest of the way.” 

With the help of Jenny’s off-the-grid allies, Irving gets what he needs: a forged ID, birth certificate, start-up cash, a welcomed change of clothes, and an old pickup truck that had seen better days. _Haven’t we all_ , he mused to himself. In time, they’re able to reunite him with Cynthia and Macey — or, Regina and Brittany as they come to be called. It’s not absolution by any means, but it’s something. 

****

********** 

**BACK TO THE PRESENT**

Jenny arrives the morning of Christmas Eve, fresh with stories of her latest travels, her bags full of newly acquired artifacts. This Christmas, she hands Crane an authentic bottle of The Harewood Rum ‘Dark’— distilled in Barbados in 1780, owned by the late Earl of Harewood, and known to be the world’s oldest and most expensive rum. “Don’t worry, Crane,” she assures him, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “I earned it fair and square.” 

* * *

_Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow  
Will find it hard to sleep tonight…_  


**THE FOLLOWING CHRISTMAS**

Cookie cutters are strewn along the counter, a bit of flour adorns his cheek (and quite a bit more coats the lower half of his apron), but he continues on, rolling out the dough. 

“The children are expecting sugar cookies. If I work quickly, I shall have two dozen ready for tonight’s festivities. I’ve also gathered some squeeze bottles for the royal icing so they may fashion them and we’ll set up some decorating tables. The mini spiced cakes for Miss Alice are cooling there on the shelf if you’d be so kind as to box them for me.” He turns on the oven light to inspect the sheet baking inside. “My ginger biscuits are being quite ornery. A few minutes more ought to do the trick.” 

They’ll travel to Safe Haven, the town’s only youth group home, to dispatch the treats along with pajamas, coats, and shoes in assorted sizes. ‘Christmas Angels’, they’re called now. Crane considers it a wonderful addition to Witnesses. Abbie doesn’t do well with honorific titles, never has. She’s just doing what she wished someone had done for her and Jenny when they were coming up in the system. Crane catches her deep in thought. 

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” he prods gently. 

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m gonna try and get a nap in before we go.” 

“Rest well.” 

A few hours later, he’s loaded up the trunk and secured their cargo. “Perhaps I should carry those,” he says as Abbie makes her way out to the truck with the last of the tins. 

“You can trust the pregnant lady with the cookies,” she quips. She puts a hand under her protruding belly and tries in vain to shift the weight. “Just a few more weeks to go.” 

He helps her into the vehicle before heading around to the driver’s side. “I wish you’d reconsider Dr. Wilmington’s ‘belly band’ suggestion. It might alleviate some of your discomfort.” 

“What would alleviate my discomfort is this kid not sitting directly on my bladder… and maybe a foot massage later?” she asks, turning to him. 

“I can deny you nothing,” he replies, kissing her hand, then her cheek, before moving to nip at her earlobe. It sends warmth straight to her chest and a moan escapes her. 

“Mm-hmm. That’s how I got into this mess. Let’s go before we’re late.” 

The night is a veritable success — with more than enough sugary delights to go around — and later, Crane reads the children the classic Dickens tale, _A Christmas Carol_. They stare up at him wide-eyed as he weaves in voices for each character and some wild facial expressions. Abbie watches on lovingly; her heart is so full of this man. 

As the night comes to an end, Crane and Abbie bid the kids goodnight and help the staff clean up. She wipes down a table while listening to a conversation between Crane and Stuart, one of the home’s caregivers (and another member of the town’s reenactment group). 

“I’d love to be able to make that eggnog of yours at home, Ichabod. What’s your secret?” 

“It is an old Crane family recipe: one dozen eggs, one-quart cream, one-quart milk, one dozen tablespoons sugar, a pint of brandy, 1/2 pint rye whiskey, 1/2 pint Jamaican rum, and a thimble’s worth of sherry. You’ll mix the liquor first, separate the yolks from the egg whites, beat them vigorously, slowly add in the milk and cream, and then fold the eggs into the mixture. The key is to let it chill for several days. I can write it down if you’d like.” “Please do. You know, it sounds identical to the recipe George Washington wrote of in his Mt. Vernon papers.” 

“Did he now?” Crane rejoins, noticeably irked by the information. 

“Yeah, a historian reprinted it a few years ago. It made the rounds on the 'Net and went ‘viral’ as the kids say,” Stuart chuckles. “I think I have the book in my locker. I’ll go grab it for you. It’s a great read!” 

“Indubitably.” 

“Uh, Crane?” 

“Yes, Treasure? Are you ready to head home?” 

“With one detour.” She motions to the floor. “I think my water just broke.” 

They reach the hospital in record time, thanks to Crane’s leadfoot and Abbie’s police siren, and soon after, they welcome a cherub with a mound of thick, dark hair and beautiful brown eyes. Their daughter Isabelle (affectionately called “Izzy”) is followed 18 months later by a baby brother, Adam. 

He never wanted to know life after them. 

* * *

_They know that Santa's on his way_  
_He's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh_  
_And every mother's child is gonna spy_  
_To see if reindeer really know how to fly_

**SEVERAL CHRISTMASES LATER**

“Preposterous.” 

“What’s that?” 

Crane holds up the offending mailer for Abbie. “There is now a concierge delivery service that will wrap the children’s presents for us? Are we really so far removed from the spirit of the holidays…” 

Abbie tunes out as he goes into a full-scale rant. _You’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all_. Later that night, she awakes to the sound of Crane bustling about downstairs and heads to the scene. He swears as he tries to wrap some of the bulkier items and rips the paper in the process. She suppresses a laugh as she hands him a Christmas bag. He concedes. 

“Thank you, Treasure.” 

“Maybe that concierge service was onto something,” she pokes playfully. “Or you could always do what I do: go and get them wrapped at the mall.” 

“That den of commercialism? I’d rather not. I know it is a small thing, Leftenant, but…” 

He falters, but she knows — why he pours his attention into something so mundane, attends every co-curricular the kids sign up for, commits to every PTA event, reviews every homework assignment after a long day at The Historical Society. The name he won’t allow himself to say. Henry. She exhales then takes a seat next to him. “Pass me a present.” 

**********

“That should do it,” Crane says, situating the last gift under the tree. 

Abbie does one last lap around the house, checking the locks on the windows and doors. “Ready to head up?” 

“Momentarily. There is one more thing I must do.” 

“’Kay. Don’t take too long.” 

Thirty-five minutes later, he strolls… no, swishes into the bedroom, donning a hooded green robe lined with white trim, a thin white beard, and his signature boots. In one hand, he carries a small sack and in the other, a white staff. 

“I’m all for costumes, but I gotta tell ya, the Gandalf look isn’t doing anything for me.” 

“What?” He quickly removes the hood. “No, I am Father Christmas. These are the final alterations for the mummers play the children and I are putting on at Safe Haven tomorrow. I’ll enter, bringing Yuletide greetings, and then stuff the children’s stockings with raisins, tangerines, and sixpence as is tradition.” 

“Shouldn’t you be red?” 

“If I catered to the whims of your cola conglomerates, yes, but in my time, this was his accepted dress — no doubt a symbolic nod to the spring he ushers in.” 

She gives him another once over. “They’ll love it,” she says sincerely. “You’re a good man, Ichabod, and a great father,” she adds, removing the fake beard to lightly scratch his underneath. He leans into her ministrations as she continues to undress him. 

“And might I inquire just _which_ costumes would you find inviting?” 

“Let’s start at ‘sexy professor’ and work our way up,” she teases as she pulls him down to her. 

His lips fall to her neck as he indulges in the smell of jasmine and shea butter, her smell. Her body arches as his thumb circles a taut nipple, roves over her ribcage, and down her belly to her thatch of curls. Soft sighs progress to drawn-out moans as he brings her to her peak. He backs off just enough to let her catch her breath and with it, she reaches for his tumescence and positions him at her entrance. Their natural sync guides them the rest of the way. When they’re thoroughly sated, Crane pulls her into his arms. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

* * *

_And so I'm offering this simple phrase_  
_To kids from one to ninety-two_  
_Although it's been said many times, many ways_  
_Merry Christmas to you._

**CHRISTMASTIME – YEAR UNKNOWN**

The kids (now full-fledged adults) insist she doesn’t drive anymore, but she dares them to take her keys. It’s a fight they won’t win. Adam quietly hands Abbie her cane as she readies herself by the door. She hates the damn thing but knows she won’t get far without it, so she accepts it begrudgingly and pats his hand in thanks. 

“At least take your phone with you this time,” Izzy implores. 

Abbie pats a coat pocket. “Got it right here.” 

“If you get tired on the way back, you just call us and we’ll come get you,” Izzy adds, handing Abbie her wool shawl. “Promise me you’ll stick to the main road — no side streets.”

“Yes, Mom,” Abbie retorts and shuts the door behind her. 

They don’t bother to ask where she’s going. They know. She makes the trek every year. 

**********

A powerful gust of wind greets Abbie as she steps out of the car onto snow-covered grounds. She pushes her long silver curls back under their cap. _Gonna take more than that to stop me._ She supports herself on the cane and makes her way to the back of the sprawling estate. Upon reaching her destination, Abbie takes pause to wrap the shawl around her arms tighter, but it’s an exercise in futility. No matter what she does nowadays, she can never get as warm as she was when he laid beside her. There’s some comfort in knowing she’ll be there again. She removes a glove to draw a finger over the engraving,

**Ichabod Crane – Cherished Father, Husband & Friend**

and finds her voice — softer but still as strong. 

“♪ Merry Christmas to you,” she sings softly to the headstone.

**Author's Note:**

> Author Notes: Head canon, should you wish to accept it: One day, he just went to sleep and didn’t wake up. It’s a fitting end for Rip Van Winkle. I also wrestled with Abbie not immediately going for her gun when Crane walks in wearing that hooded robe. LOL.  
> P.P.S. I can't take the credit for Isabelle's name. It comes from the dozens of fics in this fandom I've had the pleasure of reading here. Here's hoping for many more in the new year.


End file.
